Failsafe
by Eventide
Summary: More happened in Antartica than Claire remembers, but it will soon come clear to her and everyone else. Rating upped because of content.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Resident Evil/Biohazard and all its characters are property of Capcom.

A/N: This is an old idea that I'm finally putting to script. This may be a long road for this story so forewarned is forearmed: there will be sexual themes, perhaps sexual content. So when it comes time, the rating will be upped. Please R&R constructively and Enjoy!

This takes place immediately following the end of Code:Veronica (the good version).

* * *

Despite the near deafening humming of the jet, Claire's eyes were starting to droop and her head lolling forward. It had been a rough, what had it been, a week? A day? Who could keep track anymore? They were always seeming to stumble from hideous disaster to hideous disaster. And frankly no matter how long the experience, they were always, in the end, exhausting.

For now though, they were safe. As she felt all the adrenaline draining from her system, she agreed with her swiftly heavying limbs and allowed herself to fall into sleep.

For a while she floated in empty sleep, but out of the darkness the dream floated up. So strangely familiar, like deja vu. There was light in her eyes, and the sound of machinery humming. She turned her head, and saw something lying askew on the floor. A person, a person she knew, dressed in red and trimmed in gold. She tried to remember who it was, but before she could summon it up, someone stepped between them.

The person was backlit and so, Claire couldn't see them clearly. But a hand, slender and elegant reached out and touched her face. It turned her head one way, lifting her eyelid, then the other way. The person made a hum of satisfaction. Then they turned away slightly, the sound of squeaking wheels briefly, and then they turned back again.

"Who?" Claire asked thickly, her voice sounding distant.

The person didn't respond. They were busy with something that Claire couldn't make out. The light was too bright in her eyes. She tried to lift a hand to shield from the piercing light, but she couldn't manage to make them move.

"Steve?" The name slid off her tongue heavily. The figure stepped closer, blotting out the light. Long blonde hair slipped over a shoulder to tickle her cheek. She saw lips, delicately painted, curve into a smile.

"One for now," the voice was elegant, almost regale in tone. "And one..." Claire hissed as she felt a sting in her arm, and something thick sliding into her veins. "...for later."

The figure straightened. A hand reached out and gently stroked Claire's forehead, manicured nails scraping across her skin lightly. "Time to clean up. Company is coming." The hand slid over her eyes and all was black again.

Claire awoke with a deep intake of breath, looking around the cabin of the jet blearily. "Where are we?" She rubbed at her face with both hands and stretched as best she could in the co-pilot seat with the safety harness on.

"Not even half way to Hawaii," Chris said, not taking his eye off of what he was doing. "Go back to sleep, Claire. You look beat."


	2. Awakening

Six months later...

She stares into the mirror, taking stock of what she sees in the reflection. A little taller than average for a woman, but not as tall as she would have preferred. The body wasn't slender, but built well. Muscles were toned and sleek, not bulky or over done, still retaining femininity with its athleticism

The hands were a disappointment. Nails uneven and obviously clipped down without much attention or care. Some of the ends were peeling and snagging. Though not calloused the palms weren't as soft as they could be. She stretched out the fingers wide and could feel the tightness of dry skin.

The hair was long, but not as long as she would like. It could be fixed with time, of course. And the face was decent enough. A step above pretty. Lovely, or striking would be the best description. No, lovely without make up, striking with, if they eyes were properly highlighted. They were interesting eyes, a little exotic looking, but not overly so. Just a little turn up at the edges.

The nose was different, small and turned up just a little. Perky was the word to categorize it. The lips, full well shaped, attractive. When talking the attention would likely go between the eyes and the mouth, the best features by far. Cheek bones were high. The skin was in decent condition, but could use a little more maintenance. Coloring was pale olive, with likeliness to tan some in the sunlight.

She touches the skin of the chest and lightly explores the heavy curves of the breasts. Larger than she was used to, but the body was built to support the weight. Flat abdomen followed below, not ridiculously defined but slender. Hips flared out tapering into sleek thighs. The calves had the best definition on the whole, a good runner's body..

She looks at the clothes she had chosen. The best of what little there was. Denim pants, a soft cotton t-shirt black in color. Under clothes, and a pair of leather, low heeled boots. It was the best she could do for now.

She dressed, and then took the hair out of it's pony tail. The scalp ached from the hair being pull too tight for too long. She took the brush and counted one hundred strokes. When she was finished the brunette hair was glossy and soft. She set the brush down.

"Time to go."


	3. Invitation

Her boots crunch over the dirt. The land was so dry it was split open like so many wounds, curling up like burnt paper. She walked over the edges so it made noise with every step. She hoped, vainly, that the harsh constant sound might drag her out of this distant feeling. She wanted to be back in control, not sitting in the passenger seat all the time.

But that was why she was here, wasn't it? So _someone_ could be in control, once and for all. The answer, for better or worse, might be inside the building that lay ahead. It was a risk, but then again, there were always risks, weren't there? And what _was _the risk here? Death? No, not death, not anymore. Loss, perhaps. To loose herself, forever. Yes, that was the risk.

She came up to the high fence. There were camera's there, scanning back and forth. She didn't care about them, let those inside see what was coming. She wrapped her small hand around the chain that was keeping the gate shut and pulled. The metal tore like paper in her hand, making weak protesting noises as it tore away from itself. The gate hung open and she stepped inside.

There were guards, there were always guards. At every place she'd gone there had been guards. And here there were more. They were preparing for her it seemed, maybe this was the right place then. Or maybe her opponents were just expecting her at every facility now. It didn't matter, they wouldn't stand in her way.

They arranged themselves around her, making sure not to have anyone of their own in a cross fire. Someone called out to her to stop, to not move. It was all the same. She couldn't stop, not now. Not until she had what she needed. Someone had to be in control.

She took another step forward, and they all tensed. Another step and there was a warning shot at her feet. She didn't flinch. It couldn't hurt her. She kept walking, and they opened fire in full. Some missed, some hit. Bullets tore through her flesh, making her cheek tick in a wince, and her body jerk. She kept moving forward. Where her blood spattered the dirt caught fire.

She heard guns click empty as she closed in on the one directly in her way. She couldn't see a face behind the gas mask, but she could see from the body language that the guard was panicking. She laid a hand on his shoulder, almost gently, and flung him from her path. The way was clear now.

She approached the door. At some of the facilities, she'd known how to open the doors, her authorization was old and imbedded in the data bases, but this one wasn't one of hers. She ignored the sound of multiple guns reloading behind her and began to punch in the door. The metal dented, and she hit it again. Bullets began to rain around her again, and she let out a soft sigh. Distractions.

It wasn't so much a call, or will, but just the same they came to her. They came to that call, millions of them breaking out of the dirt. Her own private army swarmed up from the ground, climbing over boots and into cloth were they could find flesh. They tickled, they scratched, they bit. And the sounds behind her changed from gun fire to shouts and screams as every guard was accosted by thousands of ants.

She opened the door and went inside. It was cooler here, and a little darker. The florescent lights not nearly as powerful as the glaring sun outside. The halls were empty, the only sound the soft hissing of the air conditioning and the muffled sounds from outside. She knew from the smell in the air that they had cleaned this place out, not long ago. The scent of bleach was heavy on the walls and floors. Everything that had been here had been disposed of, yet still she walked the empty corridors.

She came to a door with a placard on it. It said, 'Management Office.' She turned the knob and stepped inside. The room was different from the rest of the building. It seemed to have been left alone mostly, though upon inspection the file cabinets were empty of any files. She walked around the desk and found the computer was on. She tapped the mouse gently to bring the screen back up.

The desktop was plan and held only one icon. The file name was titled "Veronica". She scanned the mouse over it and double clicked. The file opened a document; a letter. It read:

_Ms. Redfield,_

_I have noticed your adamant interest in the T-Veronica project over the last year, as you have paid numerous visits to many Umbrella facilities in search of information, and more recently, visiting our own Agency laboratories . In the interest of satisfying our mutual curiosities, I extend you an invitation to our home office for a formal visit. A transport should be awaiting you outside. _

The note wasn't signed. She exited the document and left the office. When she stepped back out into the facility's yard she saw a helicopter sitting outside the gate. The guards were still scattered about on the ground. Some were writhing around still, others were crawling off slowly, and yet others lay silent and motionless. She paid them no heed and walked toward the waiting helicopter.

As she approached, a man jumped out and offered her a hand up into the vehicle. He wore black tactical gear like everyone else around, but his mask was left inside, on his seat. She read where his pseudonym was monogrammed over his left pocked. H.U.N.K. She looked from the name to his face and back again, and cracked a smile. He raise a brow at her but his expression was otherwise, stoic. Keeping her thoughts to herself, she allowed him to help her aboard the aircraft.


	4. Appointment

As she was lead to a large oaken door, she began feel more like herself again. And she began to think that this might not have been the best of ideas, walking right into the spider's web. True this may be where the answer was found, but then again, it could also be a trap.

_Too late_, came a voice in her head. It was right, it was too late, she was already in too deep. That didn't mean that she still didn't think this was a good plan. She didn't want to end up like every other poor wretch she'd come across that these two companies had taken. She didn't want to be some experiment to be poked and prodded , and driven slowly insane. _Never_, the voice said again.

Hunk opened the door for her. She looked at him again, and couldn't help but feel a little grateful towards him. His name had made her laugh, at least inwardly, and it helped bring her back to herself. She stepped passed him into the office, afraid if she looked at him too long, she'd start snickering. It wasn't even that funny, but it had been a while since she had a really good laugh. She needed one.

"Someone will be with you shortly," he said and closed the door before she could reply. Alone, she wandered the office. It was spacious in that opulent way that rich men sometimes have. An over abundance of space with just enough to fill it so it didn't echo when you talked, but everything in it was obviously pricey.

For the first time in a long while she thought about how she must look. Her clothes had seen better days. Her shirt had turned into a dirty black rag a long while back. It had more than a few bullet holes in it, the whole of it ragged and shredded. One of the sleeves had torn away all the way to the shirt collar. She couldn't remember when her bra had given way and been discarded.

Her jeans had faired no better. The first tear had come just from the friction of walking so much, and ripped slowly around her leg, right below the back pocket. The second leg had torn in much the same place, leaving her with jean shorts. Her boots had lasted longer, but they too had their share of bullet holes. And over all she was covered with dirt and spatters of dried blood, most of it hers.

She walked to the large bay window that dominated one of the walls. It was getting ready to storm outside, blanketing the world in a false night. But it was dark enough for the internal lights to cast her reflection on the window, translucent but usable. She ran a hand over her hair, mildly attempting to smooth it down. It did little good. Her hair had grown a lot and was badly windblown. The fringe of bangs she once had had turned into longer strands that did more to frame her face, but had a tendency to get into her eyes more. She wished for a brush.

She heard the door open behind her, but she didn't turn around. The smell of subtle but expensive cologne reached her and she breathed it in. The scent was as familiar as the voice that came with it.

"Ms. Redfield, I am glad to see you could make our appointment," Wesker's voice was deep and full of that self-satisfied tone that it always had. It raised a mixture of feelings inside her, hate, rage, annoyance, as well as stranger ones, more alien when it came to this man; amusement, pleasure.

"Well, you did ask so nicely," she replied, leaving her back turned to him. She could hear his footsteps as he moved through the office, soft, deliberate, stalking her. "Your note mentioned you had questions."

"Indeed, but you surprise me, Claire," the mention of her name made her turn slowly to face him. He was leaning on the edge of the office's large desk, his arms crossed lightly over his chest. He wore his perpetual sunglasses as always. "I would think, after your rampage across the country, you'd be asking as to the whereabouts of your beloved Mr. Burnside. But perhaps he's not your primary concern anymore?"

"No," came her soft reply. She really hadn't thought about Steve and a long time. Her drive had been to find out as much about T-Veronica as she could because... Because something had gone wrong and she had to know why. More importantly, how to fix it. Umbrella hadn't known anything, but the Agency might. Because they had Steve. But she hadn't come to save him. She'd come to get whatever information they'd managed to pull from him. Guilt swamped her suddenly and completely.

"Don't feel too bad , dear heart," Wesker's voice pulled her attention back to him. "After all, viral mutation can be a bit overwhelming." His voice was mild, but beneath it, he was laughing at her.

The worst part was, she too could see the irony in the situation. Maybe under different circumstances, she might've had a laugh at it herself, but not here and not now. With her head up, she walked passed him, heading for the door. She wasn't even half way there when she heard a mechanical click. He'd locked the door.

"Just where _do_ you think you're going," the amusement was breaking through his cool, making her hackles rise a little bit more.

"I didn't come here to be mocked."

"You don't really think I'll let you leave," she heard him move, boots softly clicking with each step. "Do you?"

She started for the door again. If he thought a little lock was going to keep her out, he was sorely mistaken. "Stop me," she tossed over her shoulder.

She felt the air move behind her and that voice from within hissed at her, _duck!_ She obeyed. Crouching low to the floor, she looked up to see Wesker swiping at the air where her head had been. She needed no internal encouragement now, and stood up swinging.


	5. Two's Company

A/N: Many thanks to my fiancé for providing me with hand to hand combat options for Wesker.

This chapter is dedicated to Ornamental Nonsense and Kristanci, because I loved both your stories so much it gave me the kick in the pants, and the necessary fight move, to make this chapter's completion possible.

* * *

The upper cut caught him squarely in the chin and sent him staggering back. His sunglasses clattering to the floor. Taking advantage of his loss of balance, she cross stepped for the extra boost, and kicked him squarely in the chest. He was air borne for a moment, before landing on his ass. He used the momentum and turned skidding into a roll that put him back on his feet.

Neither of them hesitated, launching at each other. Claire felt herself slipping into that distant foggy state, even as her adrenaline pumped. That alien piece that didn't belong, where the voice came from, swelled up within her. _Kill him!_ The command was so abrupt and so against everything Claire was, she staggered. And Wesker, ducking low to compensate for her height, plowed his shoulder into her.

She slammed into the wall behind her. The breath left her body in a rush, and she could feel Wesker re-adjusting. His hands clamped on her upper arms, finding the nerves of the pressure points and squeezed.

She sucked in air to make a sound of pain. She flailed, and tried to shove him off of her. In response, he smashed his skull into hers in a head butt. The force of it made her head snap back into the wall. Stars exploded in front of her eyes and she sagged.

She felt her feet leave the floor as he lifted her, then he pitched her across the room. She landed hard on her shoulder and slid, coming to a stop as her back collided with the wall. Pressing her back against it, she used the wall to help lever her up to her feet She wasn't even completely straight when he was on her again, taking a fistful of her hair, and pulling her up onto her toes.

"Satisfied yet?" He held her up close to his face. She saw his red-gold cat's eyes staring into hers and something happened. Out of that vague fog within, she rolled up, swamping everything. She slide down through Claire's veins like a drug, making her shudder at the overwhelming sensation. It felt good, strong, and so very wrong.

"Hardly," her voice rolled out, elegant, cultured. "I barely felt a thing." She opened the eyes slowly and smiled with satisfaction. Wesker's jerk of surprise was subtle, he hid emotions well when he wanted. But even that small twinge revealed everything. Her voice, her inflections, her yellow eyes, all housed within the Redfield girl's body, had been the last thing he'd expect to find.

"Alexia?" She could hear the bemusement in his voice and it made a grin leisurely spread her lips. Slowly she raised her left hand to his peripheral view. She saw when his attention shifted, registered the grey flesh ending in slender talons. And still he was too slow.

Her blow sent him to the floor. She allowed him to begin regaining his feet before she backhanded, as though she were swatting a fly, and sent him hurtling across the room. She moved away from the wall and glided toward him, taking her time, enjoying it.

"Perhaps this will motivate you," she purred, raising her mutated arm once more. She lifted her right hand, still unchanged, pink and whole, and brought it to its warped twin. The nails were longer, but chipped and ragged from much hard living over the passed months, perfect to make a small wound, and let her blood flow free.

But as she was about to pierce her own viral flesh, her footing stumbled. Her human hand froze and refused to obey her. "No," the word slipped from her lips, uncertain. She shook her head violently, sending her disheveled mane flying. "No, no, no!"

Alexia staggered sideways, her hip bumping clumsily into the desk, and she slid to the floor. Her hand shook, muscles tense to the point of spasms, and slowly changed. The grey color returned to a tanned pink by degrees. The talons receded, becoming long slender fingers once again. She let out a low scream of frustration, shutting her eyes tightly. And then her body sagged, leaning heavily in a heap against the side of the desk.

When Claire opened her eyes, she saw Wesker standing over her, looking down at her as though she had just done something mildly interesting. Though she felt utterly drained, she managed to summon up her attitude from somewhere within. "You know, now that I think about, I should probably stay."

"Changed your mind, Miss Redfield," he sounded mildly amused again.

"Woman's prerogative, you know."


	6. Her Gilded Cage

A/N: For everyone who is bemoaning the length of my chapters, I apologize, but the length of them is never planned. I usually just write until the scene feels done. Going beyond that feeling, I believe, makes the chapter drag out, like I'm trying to meet a word requirement for a paper, even though the idea has already been expressed. The last thing I want is to bore you guys. So I will do my best to make each chapter worth while for you all, but I can't help if some are a little on the shorter side.

Also, please remember to Review. Feedback really helps to motivate me to keep writing, plus I love to hear your thoughts. Thank you all, and Enjoy!

* * *

Claire had never really been a big fan of doctors, and her experience with laboratories hadn't improved her opinion. The whole experience was always so impersonal, white walls and tile floors, the smell of disinfectant, and somewhere underneath it all, sickness. And this time it wasn't any different.

She sat in a white on white room, on one of those padded examining tables that are always lined with white paper. It seemed like a statement to anyone who had to be there that that you were dirty and they didn't want you to stain anything permanent. Even the doctors wore white lab coats, as if they were trying to distance themselves from the viruses that they were so close to all the time.

The doctor that was performing Claire's physical exam seemed to be worse than all the others though. She was tall and thin. Her skin was so pale she was almost as white as her lab coat. She had blonde hair, done up in a tight bun, and dainty glasses. Her slacks were a cream color, and the shirt was a tone of off white. Claire wanted to throw a glob of mud on her and see how she'd react. She'd probably have a panic attack.

It was rather gratifying to see the woman's face pinch slightly when she had to touch Claire, to take her pulse or feel her lymph nodes. No one had made her change from her ragged clothes to one of those horrible hospital gowns, for which she would be eternally grateful. She wondered how long that would last though. Surely they were bound to strip her down of what dignity they could, and poke and prod at her like some kind of science project at some point.

"Follow the light, please," the doctor turned on a her small medical flash light and shone it in Claire's left eye, moving it right and left and up and down, then repeated the same pattern with the right eye. She had Claire open her mouth and say 'Ahh', check her ears and reflexes, making notations after each one.

The doctor stepped back, like she wanted to put distance between herself and Claire. "Any skin irritations?"

"Nope," she began kicking her legs, enjoying the doctor's obvious discomfort at having to talk to her.

"Muscle pain?"

"None."

"Dizziness?"

Claire thought about the foggy feeling she often got when _she_ was riding close to the surface. "Not really, but sometimes I feel like..." She thought about how she could discribe it.

"Like?"

"Like I'm walking in a fog, or sitting in the passenger seat while someone else drives." She watched the doctor make some hurried notations, and couldn't help herself. "You don't like it do you?"

"Like what?"

"Having to treat the science project like its a human being." The doctor slowly looked up at Claire, and she kept prodding. "It's hard for you to look at me and think of me as a person."

"Yes," the doctor replied softly, but she looked at Claire with hard grey eyes. "But you aren't a person."

"I just look like one," Claire countered, feeling the warmth of anger building up in her cheeks. "And talk like one, and think like one, right?"

The doctor couldn't hold her eyes, and looked away. "Someone will be with you shortly to take a blood sample." With that the bright white doctor fled the room, trying to get as far away from the grim reality sitting in there as possible.

Claire waited.

And she waited.

By the time she'd counted the ceiling tiles and the floor tiles for the twentieth time, the door opened. This one was young-ish, probably around thirty something. He had short brown hair that he'd gelled into little spikes, and his shirt was a bright orange beneath his lab coat. He wore thick plastic goggles, and was pushing a little medical cart that held syringes. She cringed, she hated needles.

"Hiya," he smiled at Claire, pushing the cart over, and pulling up the little rolling stool. "I'm James." He held out his hand to her and she accepted it.

"Claire." His hand shake was firm, but he didn't try to squeeze her hand. Confident. "You seem a little out of place here, James."

"Yeah, my three piece suit is permanently in the wash." He began putting on thick latex gloves. "I hear you've got pure TV."

"TV?"

"Sorry," he chuckled. "I mean T-Veronica." He began swabbing the bend of her left arm with alcohol. "We don't get to see many people with functioning Tyrant Veronica, well, ever. Our only samples are pretty basic. I'm told you've got the real deal, the incubated version."

Claire frowned darkly at him, barely noticing that he was reaching for one of the syringes. "You make it sound like I won a high def television. This virus is not a prize."

"If you'll pardon me, in my field, it kind of is." She stared at him incredulously, while he focused down on her arm and continued. "See, whatever way you ended up with it, you haven't been degenerated by the virus. And our experience with TV shows that only one out of every 9.5 million people have the right genetics to adapt the virus to their system, instead of being mutated by it right out. That's only 700 people in the entire world."

"Seven hundred people?" Claire was stunned. Seven hundred seemed like an awful lot when it came to Tyrants. Oblivious to her moral outrage, James kept right on.

"Yeah, it's not a whole lot. Plus the odds of ever finding even one of those seven hundred are even slimmer." He lifted up the syringe in his hand and laid it next to the two others on the tray, all of them were full of deep red blood. "And you're all done."

"Excuse me?" She blinked as she realized he'd taken all his samples without her noticing. She hadn't even felt the needles prick her skin, he'd kept her so distracted. He peeled off his gloves, dumping them in a trash can that was marked with a biohazard symbol.

"Yep, all done. Lemme just drop these off in the lab, and I'll come back to show you to your room." He rolled the cart towards the door. "Don't worry, it won't take long at all."

It didn't. In only a few minutes, Claire found herself walking along side Dr. James through the clean white hallways. She could only wonder what kind of bleached out cell she was about to occupy. James led her to a set of double doors with a keypad lock. He punched in a code, the small red light turned green, and pushed open the doors.

On the other side, was not what Claire was expecting. There was a large open lounging area, with carpeting and warm toned wall paper. There were nice couches, some side tables and chairs, and plants throughout. There were windows with heavy drapes, tied with cords.

"This is our patient dormitory," James explained leading her through the lounge toward the hall just beyond it. "We've found that those of our patients, who retain coherent thought and function, do better in a homier setting. Less restless, less likely to become agitated during exams and tests."

"No offense," Claire responded. "But I'm surprised that a company that's doing underground bio weapon research like this even cares about the comfort of its test subjects."

"This isn't Auschwitz, Claire," he admonished as he unlocked one of the doors. "We get that you can't live like a lab rat. You're still a person."

"That's not what the other doctor thinks."

"She said something to you?" He turned, his hand resting on the doorknob, looking unhappy for the first time. "I apologize for Dr. Michaels. She had a mishap a while ago that she hasn't quite gotten over. Shall we?" Claire was curious, but she didn't press for details on what Dr. Prefect had gone through. Instead she let him open the door and lead her into her room.

Once again, it wasn't what she'd expected. It wasn't a room so much as a one bedroom apartment. The living room was generous in size, done in deep green and blues. The floor was dark hard wood, with a thick rug spread across it. A leather couch and two matching chairs were arranged around a cherry wood coffee table in the center of the room. There were book shelves, that were only half full, and an entertainment center that held a stereo system with a small selection of cds. Against one wall there was a desk in the same cherry wood as the coffee table with a simple looking computer and a stool.

"The computer," James explained. "Is hooked up to an intranet with housekeeping. If you need anything, supplies, different books, more types of music, you just open up the browser and type in what you'd like. Since you're the only resident in the dorms right now, they should be able to get you anything you need within an hour or so."

Of course there'd be no internet options, no television, nothing to really let anyone staying there know what was going on in the outside world. It was pretty typical. They'd isolate their test subjects in the lap of luxury, without any way to even know what the weather was going to be like.

Claire wandered into a good sized kitchen. The appliances looked knew and shiny with their stainless steel finishes. The cabinets were cherry wood again, and the counter top was green and blue swirled marble. She checked some of the cabinets and found pots and pans and glass dishes in the same blue and green motif. The refrigerator and freezer were stocked with enough food to feed a family of five for two weeks. A table sat in a little breakfast nook.

"The bedroom and bath are on the other side of the living room," James continued on behind her. "There should be some clothes and linens already. Do you need anything right away, or shall I let you settle in?"

"I think I'll be okay."

"Okay then," he smiled at her again. "Well get some rest, you've got a full schedule tomorrow. Someone will be here for you around ten. Good night, Claire." He waved at her and turned to leave.

"Night." Her reply was weak, because suddenly she really didn't want to be alone here. But she heard the door click shut and knew it was too late. She was stuck here, in a nicely gilded cage. She walked back into the living room and slumped down onto the buttery soft cushions of the couch, tucking her legs up and hugging them. "Now what am I gonna do?"


	7. Impossible

"I can't believe you talked with that thing."

James barely glanced up from the report he was reading when Dr. Michaels spoke. Kathleen had been pretending to be busy for about half an hour since he'd come to the lab. Apparently, the strain had been too much for her to keep silent any longer.

"She very personable," he responded, his voice mild. "You'd be surprised at how un-thing like she really is."

"It's disturbing," Kathleen stated hotly. "You were _flirting_ with a test subject."

"She's cute."

"It's disgusting."

He set the report aside and looked up at Kathleen's face. She was flushed and her arms were folded tightly, her hands clenched in fists. He felt a pang of sympathy for her, he always did, but it got smaller and smaller each time. He stood up and moved over to a microscope, putting the designated slide under the lens.

"I don't really see how I choose to behave with our volunteer is any of your business, Kathleen." He sat down on the high stool, turning his gaze to the microscope rather pointedly. He adjusted the view slowly, bringing the sample into focus. "Are you jealous?"

"Don't flatter yourself," the blond spat at him. "I just think it's sick. You're hitting on a walking corpse-"

"What the hell?" Blinked, and readjusted the magnification.

"Oh don't give me that indignation," Kathleen plowed on, picking up steam. "You know it, I know it, and _she_ knows it. It's only a matter of time before she starts growing tumors and fangs."

"That's impossible," James abruptly declared. "She's been infected way too long."

"You're joking right?" Kathleen threw up her hands incredulously. "Just because she's got a decent immune system, that's not going to stave it off forever."

"Yeah, well, I don't know about that," he sat up away from the microscope and turned his shocked expression to Kathleen, which finally shut her up. "Have you looked at this?"

"No, what is it?" Mixed with concern and intrigue, she moved over to stand beside him. He stood up and let her take a look. She adjusted the magnification, twice, before standing straight up. "That's...that's impossible."

"I think I said that already," He gathered up the report and headed for the door. "I want you to go down and have them hurry up with the DNA testing. I want the results before ten am. She's schedule for a psych eval, and I want Dr. Monroe to know what she's looking for."

"Okay," Kathleen followed him out, a little breathless. "And where are you going?"

James tapped the report with a finger. "He's gonna want an update. He's flagged Claire's case as priority."

* * *

A few minutes later, James found himself in Wesker's dimly lit office, explaining the unexplainable.

"I double checked it myself, sir," He tried not to sound nervous, but Dr. Wesker was such an imposing, stone faced man. "If she was actually infected over six months ago, the virus should have replicated enough that she shouldn't have any uninfected cells. But most of the viral cells are just floating free. Some have attached but endocytosis hasn't occurred."

"What's her leukocyte count?"

"Normal. And on top of that, they're ignoring the virus completely." Dr. Wesker lifted his attention from the report, turning those dark sunglasses toward him. James got the feeling he'd hit on something important. "It's like her body is acting as though she's not infected at all, but the virus had to have replicated in her system at some point. There's just too much of it. It's almost as though it just...decided to stop."

The silence stretched out. And James had to stand there while the reputedly genius mind of Dr. Wesker worked. He was starting to feel forgotten, and had begun considering slipping out, when Wesker spoke at last.

"I want a full report when the DNA tests are finished and the psychiatric evaluation is complete. You're dismissed, Dr. Bennett." He turned towards the computer screen on his desktop, and James truly felt dismissed. Like he wasn't even there anymore.

He exited the office and began the long walk back to the lab, wondering exactly what conclusion that man had come to about Claire's condition. The case was extremely unique; a virus surviving in almost complete, independent stasis within a host. Yet the host had, reportedly, exhibited signs of extreme infection.

There was something missing. Somewhere inside Claire Redfield, there was a link, that would explain the virus' improbable behavior. And the strange, sinking feeling in his stomach told James that he would likely discover it, and it wouldn't be the scientific miracle he was hoping for.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the brevity, but the next part just didn't seem to fit, being tacked on to this chapter. Don't worry, the next is coming very soon.

Endocytosis is the second stage of viral reproduction, when it absorbs into the host cell that it has attached to.

Leukocytes are white blood cells.


	8. Memories

Claire had done just about everything she could think of and it was just barely 8 a.m. according to the digital clock beside the bed. She'd spent all night getting to know her surroundings. She'd eaten, because it seem appropriate. She'd bathed, because she desperately needed to. She'd dressed in what was offered to her -a loose green cotton shirt, with a hood, and a pair of tan cotton workout pants, in particular- because it seemed silly not to.

And finally, at about 2 a.m., she'd logged on the computer and punched in a long list of music and literature selections. Despite being the only resident, apparently she'd given the housekeeping staff a run for their money, because they hadn't been able to deliver her order until around six.

She'd been surprised to see that they'd managed to get a hold of just about everything she'd requested. Her book choices had been all across the spectrum, from grocery store romances, to graphic novels. They'd even found her a copy of _The Zombie Survival Guide_. She'd only asked for it as a joke. And the case full of Cds was a mix of full albums and burned mixes, all sorted by genre. Housekeeping sure took their job seriously.

She'd spent a good hour just putting things in their proper place, and was left wondering what to do with herself for the next two hours, before someone came to get her. She considered napping, but she still didn't feel the least bit tired. In fact, she couldn't remember that last time she'd slept. No, she needed to do something grounding. Her whole world had been spinning out of control for so long, she needed a little calm.

The furniture got pushed up against the wall, the rug folded up. She flipped through the cd case and chose the first thing that made her smile. It was a remade soundtrack to _The Nightmare Before Christmas_, all the songs done by different artist. It was titled _Nightmare Revisited._

"Seems appropriate," she mused aloud as she put it into the system. She programmed it to skip over the harsher songs, like the ones done by Marilyn Manson and Korn. It was likely to be energizing, but she wanted something less....grating.

She stepped to the center of the floor, as the All-American Rejects version of "Jack's Lament" began to play, surprisingly smooth in sound. She stood straight, took a few deep breaths and began a basic solo form of Tai chi ch'uan.

As she moved and breathed, slowly the room seemed to soften around her, her eyes sliding into a soft focus. The music faded to a background accompaniment to the way her hands moved, the way her knees bent. She relaxed into the muscle memory of the routine, her thoughts drifting away.

"That's very impressive."

Claire was so relaxed that she didn't start at the sudden voice. Her head turned, but her body continued the movement it had begun. She finished her form properly before responding.

"Thanks," she smiled at the woman standing by the door. "It's been a while since I went through it. I'm sorry, I didn't hear you knock." Claire moved to the stereo and turned it off. The soft voice of Amy Lee's slowly faded away, singing about having a feeling of impending disaster. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you knock."

"Oh it's all right," the woman smiled at her. She was probably in her forties, but attractive in her neat maroon suit. Her shoulder length sable hair was loose, looking expertly curled, and her make up was subtle. "I wouldn't have wanted to disturb you for the world. Is that a martial art?"

"Yes, Tai chi chuan," Claire explained, as she went to put the rug back in place. "It's a soft martial art, more focused on meditation and health."

"Does it have a practical application?" The woman set down the small clipboard she had, then went to push one of the chairs back into place.

"Mostly for self-defense," Claire scooted the other chair back into place. "It's a study of appropriate change in form, in response to outside force. It's usually for neutralizing attacks rather than meeting them with force."

"Usually?" The woman queried with a small smile, taking one end of the couch.

"There are some strikes," Claire took up her position on the other end of the couch. "But still they're yielding. The idea is to balance the opposing 'hard force' with a 'soft force', until the hard force is exhausted. Lao Tzu said 'The soft and pliable, will defeat the hard and strong.' in the Tao Te Ching."

"You read Chinese?"

Claire laughed, shaking her head as they moved the couch back into place. "No, but I did my research when I began training in the art." She stood straight and moved around the couch, hand outstretched. "I'm Claire, by the way."

"Dr. Monroe," the woman said, taking her hand. "But you can call me Miranda. I'm glad to see you've made yourself at home."

"As much as I can, I suppose. " She shrugged, feeling the light mood slipping away into business. "What can I do for you, Doctor?"

"Miranda, please," The woman insisted, gesturing for Claire to have a seat on the couch. "And really, it would be more appropriate to say it is what I'm here to do for you, Claire."

Claire sat down, but stayed on the edge of the cushion as Miranda retrieved her clipboard. The older woman opted for one of the chairs instead of the couch. "And what is that exactly?"

"I'm here just to talk," She began flipping pages over on the board, taking a pen out from under the clip. "Get to know you. Help you with any issues that may come up."

"It's okay to be honest, Miranda," Claire smiled with a little humor. "You're here to evaluate me. See if I'm crazy."

"We don't like to use the term 'crazy'." The words admonished, but she was smiling back.

"Too honest?"

"Too broad."

They shared a laugh, but it faded into a seriousness. Claire slumped back on the couch, and alternately Miranda leaned forward. "I'll start with a few questions, just answer as honestly as you can, okay?"

Feeling she had little choice in the matter, Claire shrugged. "Fire away."

Miranda looked down at her notes, tapping the first question with the point of her pen. "Do you know when you were first injected with the T-Veronica virus.?" The question hit like lead, and Claire shuddered involuntarily. Miranda's face became concerned, reportedly, the last time the second personality had surfaced was after such an involuntary action. "Claire, are you all right?"

"December, 1998." Claire's voice was soft. She could recall it now, still like a dream, but it would never fade from memory. "In Antarctica."

The response was strangely phrased, so Miranda pushed further. "Do you know what today's date is, Claire?"

"No. I don't."

"It's the twenty-first of October, 1999." Miranda watched Claire closely, as the young woman shut her eyes tightly, the news was likely very hard to take. "What is the last time frame you remember?"

"Last I remember, it was June," Claire's voice was slightly strained, but she stayed calm. She would not panic because she'd lost a hand full of months, it wouldn't help. "We were in Boston."

"Go on, Claire."

Encouraged by the fact Miranda didn't push about whos and wheres, Claire obeyed. "I went to bed. I said goodnight to my brother, and I went to bed. The next thing I remember, I was in Virginia. Some small town, outside of Richmond. I was walking on the side walk, and a truck pulled up beside me. The driver asked me where I was heading, offered to take me into the city. I got in and....

"And then I was in Kentucky, outside an office building. I didn't know why I was there. I left. I wanted to find a pay phone, call my brother. I remember dialing, I don't remember hearing anyone answer. Then I was in Missouri."

Claire continued on, describing her choppy trek across the country. She'd gone through Missouri, into Arkansas. From Arkansas into Texas. Texas to Oklahoma, to Colorado, to New Mexico, into Arizona. Then she'd gone up to Utah, and finally ended up in Nevada, where the recovery team had picked her up. All the while, moving in and our of perception, but notably regaining awareness as she had progressed. Yet, often times she had felt that she had no control over her actions.

"Tell me about this foggy state of mind you described."

"It's just that," Claire let her head drop back onto the top of the couches back rest. "Like I'm seeing through a fog. Or half asleep, dreaming the things I'm doing. But I know it's not me doing them, and I know it's not a dream."

"Have you ever been able to over come it?"

"A few times, if it's bad enough."

"When was the last time you were able to snap out of the fog state?"

"Yesterday."

"What were you doing yesterday?"

"Trying to kill your boss." Miranda's head snapped up, the look of shock on her face stamped clearly for Claire to see. Claire rolled her head sideways to meet the stunned doctor's eyes. "We were fighting, and I went under, lost all my awareness. It all went black, but it was different somehow. I knew she was trying to kill him. I knew she'd burn him alive, and laugh while he died. No matter what Wesker's done, no matter how much he deserved it, I couldn't let her kill him. I couldn't watch someone die like that."

"Who is this 'she'?" Claire had to hand it to Miranda, the woman recovered quickly. When in doubt, focus on business.

"Alexia Ashford." Claire's tone was matter of fact, because for the first time, she was sure she was right. "The one who injected me with T-Veronica."

"Claire," Miranda's voice was careful. "Alexia Ashford died in an explosion."

Claire actually laughed, but the sound was harsh, and without any mirth. "Yeah, try telling her that."

* * *

"It's either a psychotic break," Miranda explained. "Or it might be exactly what you think it is. Though I find the latter theory far too science fiction to believe."

"She possessed embedded access codes to Umbrella systems that are over a decade old."

"So she memorized them when she was in Antarctica," Miranda countered. "You're a man of science, Dr. Wesker, of knowledge. How can you possibly believe that two physical people are inhabiting the same body?"

"The hypothesis is sound," His voice was that same neutral it usually was, but Miranda was a skilled psychologist. She could hear the undertone of impatience. Wesker was not a man who like to be challenged. "And is supported by the data. If you can come up with a more suitable explanation of why Ms. Redfield currently has two distinct blood types, and two distinctly different genetic codes, I would gladly hear it."

Against her better judgement, Miranda pressed on. "A lab error would explain the genetic codes, and a blood transfusion would easily explain the separate blood types."

"The blood types are improperly cross-matched. There are no signs of hemolytic reactions," He responded flatly. "No headaches, backaches, nor any other minor symptom. Neither is there dyspnea, cyanosis, or tachycardia. Nor does your theory explain why the virus is attaching only to cells with the secondary DNA strands, or why there are enough of those cells to be scattered throughout her entire system. Any other suggestions?"

"No," Miranda sighed, knowing she was defeated.

"Then you are dismissed, Doctor."

* * *

A/N: My brain bursts with so much research. .

The Zombie Survival Guide is a book by Max Brooks, and excellent read for any zombie fan.

Tai chi ch'uan is a soft martial art. I thought it was the perfect martial art for Claire. Check it out on Wikipedia. I know the apostrophe is sometimes missing, the automatic correct keeps fighting with me.

The Tao Te Ching is a classic Chinese text.

Dyspnea - difficult and painful breathing

Cyanosis - bluing of the skin due to lack of oxygen

Tachycardia- rapid heart rate

The Nightmare Before Christmas is owned by Disney, as is Nightmare Revisited.

And yes I know some of you are thinking "Why Nightmare Revisited". Well I'll tell you, I've been listening to it for about a week now, and it's been the drive behind all my recent work on this story. It even gave me the Tai Chi idea. So I thought to give credit where it was due.


	9. Connections

For MariFM, and my other reviewers. thanks for keeping me excited about each new chapter. I probably couldn't keep this pace up without you. I still can't believe you waited on the last chapter. I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long for this one.

* * *

Beneath the surface, she waited. Hovering just below awareness, she watched. Events were unfolding as planned, but one thing was still out of reach. It mattered not though, she knew how to reel him in. She had given him a taste, and now he looked for more. Eventually, he would come to her, to them. They were both the ones she needed, and they were so close. She had waited for a long time, she knew how to do it well. She could be patient a little longer.

* * *

He had them run tests. Numerous tests, attempting to cause the virus to show itself outwardly. But to no avail. He was getting impatient. His scientists were missing something. Questions plagued him. How was it the virus remained dormant, when there was evidence of complete infection? It was likely linked to the manifestation of Alexia's consciousness, but that too had gone quiet. Perhaps this required his personal attention.

Yes, that was exactly what was called for. The team assigned to Ms. Redfield's case was clouded by they're own misguided emotions. They could not see the forest for the trees, so to speak. His mind made up, Wesker rose from his desk and headed down to the labs.

* * *

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Claire recalled a recent contrast between herself and a lab rat. And in her opinion that was far from how she felt.

Test after test after test, for days on end. They'd run everything on her from a cat scan to running on a tread mill hooked up to wires. They'd even given her an IQ test, which they said she couldn't fail, but from their disappointed expressions, she hadn't given them the results they were hoping for.

Claire didn't say anything, but she knew what they were looking for. They were looking for Alexia. But the dead woman never surfaced. For the first straight week in five months, Claire was in complete control of her mind and body, and she wanted to keep it that way. So she let them do their tests, and poke her half to death with needles for their endless samples.

And then it all shifted. His scent coiled through the air ahead of him, not even the over active ventilation could dissipate it. She almost stumbled in her run on the tread mill, they were pushing her to the quickest pace she could maintain, but she recovered. The monitor she was hooked up to registered her heart rate speed up, but James didn't notice as Wesker stepped through the door.

"Just keep going, Claire," James said to her over his shoulder as he went to great the imposing man. Claire did keep running, but mostly it was for a lack of anything else she could do. She watched them talk by the door and wondered, after all this time, why Wesker had come down in person.

They're tones were low enough that Claire couldn't make out the conversation over the motor of the tread mill and the beeping of the monitor, but from James' posture, he wasn't getting good news. What did that mean for her? Had they found something?

She stepped off the machine when James abruptly left the room. He didn't slam the door, but by the set of his shoulders, he probably wanted to. What had Wesker said to make him so angry? She eyed him from where she was, and he, in turn ignored her. Instead, he picked up the medical chart sitting on the table, and went over it. She stood there and watched him, and waited. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore.

"So is there a greater purpose behind this visit, or was uncomfortable silence your only goal here?" She didn't temper her inclination to sarcasm. She didn't care if she riled him, at least it would be better than being ignored.

"You're case is very interesting, Ms. Redfield," He looked up from the file, and even though his eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, she could feel the eye contact. "But it poses yet more questions than answer. Sit."

She walked over to the examination table and climbed onto it with as much grace as she could. He came in front of her and shone a medical light in her eyes. "Has anyone given you any medications?"

She frowned at the question. Shouldn't he know that they hadn't? He was in charge wasn't he? She shook her head. "No."

She couldn't tell if that meant anything or not. His face was impossible to read. He reached for a stethoscope and placed the end on her chest. "Breath in."

She did so, and her head felt light. It wasn't just cologne she could smell, but something deeper. It wasn't just his skin, something basic, fundamental. "Isn't grunt work a little beneath you?" She couldn't reason why she was out right trying to bait him, perhaps it was how unsteady she felt.

"Information is never beneath me." The stethoscope was set aside, and the world slowed down. She saw him reach out for her wrist, her mind reasoning that he was going to check her pulse, time her heart rate. And she suddenly felt the overwhelming desire to let him touch her, almost craved it. _That_ made her desperately not want him to touch her at all.

But he did, and she felt a sudden, involuntary thrill go along her nerves. She thought he must have felt it too, because he froze there, his fingers pressed around her wrist, the flow of her blood hammering away just below the surface. The moment stretched, tense, between them.

Abruptly, he released her and opened one of the medical cabinets. She watched him retrieve a syringe, and returned to her. He took her arm firmly and stabbed her vein with the needle. Claire winced and looked away. She hated watching her blood fill those needles.

Once the it was done, he stepped back from her and his exit almost seemed rushed. Claire staired after him, wondering what had just happened. She wiped away the droplet of blood that welled up from the small wound at the bend of her arm with her fingers.

"Claire," James' head poked back into the room. "Hey, I guess your done for the day. I'll walk you back to the dorms.

"Okay," she pushed herself off of the exam table and followed James out into the hall, wondering what had just happened. Neither of them noticed the tiny tendril of smoke that rose from were Claire's fingers had brushed the table.

* * *

"Pheromones," Dr. Michaels stated., handing him the data. "The sample was swimming with them. And on top of that, there was some viral activity, but it's slowed back down to stasis."

Wesker took the file from her and examined it himself. Pheromones might explain the dilation of her eyes, the unsteady breathing, and the sudden rapid pulse. If he guessed correctly, he'd found his connection, which meant he'd misjudged the situation completely from the start. Contemplating his next move, he began walking, leaving Dr. Michaels stammering in the hall behind him.


	10. Chasing the Dragon

It had been hours, and Claire still felt shaken. The pound and rush of the hot water did nothing to sooth away the tingle at her wrist. She wrapped her own hand around her wrist, lining her fingers up where his had been, and felt annoyed with herself. What was wrong with her?

She shut the water off with an abrupt flick, and stepped out of the shower. She wrapped her hair up in a towel and pulled on a thick white robe, looping the belt once and tugging it tight. Her hand reached out for the door latch and that's when she caught the scent. The sound of acoustic guitar accented the sudden flutter in her stomach.

She flung the door open and stormed into the living room. She saw him, standing at her stereo, flipping through one of the cd cases. She recognized the song flowing from the player as _Chasing the Dragon_, as Simone Simons' voice began to croon.

_(Free my mind. Heal my scars. Erase the past....)_

"What the hell are you doing in here?"

He didn't look up right away, instead flipping another of the leaf in the case. "You have a varied taste in music, Ms. Redfield."

Her hands balled into fists, and she crossed her arms over her chest. She wasn't in the mood to dance around like this. "You broke in my room to spy on what I listen to?"

His head turned toward her slowly, and there was the slightest smirk on his lips. It was aggravating. "You cannot lock your door without the master key," his body followed the slow turn of his head, and Claire found herself faced with his full attention. "So technically speaking, your door was open, and that is -What is the saying? Like a welcome invitation."

"You live to be aggravating, don't you." It wasn't a question, and Claire could feel her cheeks flushing with her rising animosity. She closed her eyes and let out a breath. He was trying to push her buttons, for whatever reasoning, but she didn't have to rise the occasion. Lifting a hand she pulled off the towel around her head, letting her wet hair fall in a damp tangle around her shoulders. She tossed the towel over the back of the couch and sat a hip on the arm rest. "So what do you want?"

He moved when she moved, adopting similar postures. He leaned back against the entertainment center, crossing his arms. He looked as causal as she'd ever seen him, despite the severe black on black he continuously wore. "I wanted to as you some questions." She quirked a brow and he clarified. "About your mental state."

"So you're taking over for the psychologist now too?"

He ignored her sass, pushing forward with his own agenda. "I'm curious about your dual-mental state. You haven't manifested a second personality since your arrival."

"What would you like me to say? I don't know why it hasn't happened again, so if you're looking for an answer on the 'why', I'm really not the one to talk to."

"Ah and there's the trouble," He moved away from the stereo and came toward her, his movements slow and stalking. "The one I should be talking to is conspicuously gone, and that leaves only you here, Claire."

He'd stopped right in front of her, incredibly close in front of her. Her outstretched leg was between his. She could feel the vague touch of his breathing against her cheek, as he looked down at her. He was purposefully invading her personal space, and she wanted to move. But she also didn't want to lose what little ground she felt she had. She sat still, trying not give away that her heart had just started racing.

"I don't know what you're hoping for." Claire was glad to hear she sounded more steady that she felt. Was it getting hotter in there? "She doesn't leave mental notes floating around in my head."

"But you've described a dual state of mind, at times. You must have some idea of what her motivation is. It could mean the difference between her dominance and yours. What is she after?"

Claire shook her head and looked away from him. Even though she couldn't see his eyes, she felt them. And his gaze, combined with the way his scent wrapped around her, was unnerving "It's never clear. She's looking for something she needs. I don't know what it is."

_(Poison is slowly, seeping my veins...)_

She felt his fingers take hold of her chin, light but firm, and turned her head back to him. And she felt like she was suddenly burning up inside. All her nerves were so suddenly alert and very aware that he was touching her. His voice was lower it seemed now, when he spoke. "And what do you want?"

"I...I don't know." She couldn't really breath.

"I don't believe that, Claire."

She stood up abruptly, not thinking of how it would bring them to the point of almost touching. She was shaky and frightened, and didn't care. "I don't care what you believe." She turned intending to slide away from him, get some space. But he grabbed her arm.

She reacted on instinct, moving with the practiced motions of her chosen martial art. The arm he held arced up, circled around the outside of his arm, coming up underneath. And she pushed. She didn't wait to see how far he would move back. She turned her back and practically ran.

He caught her by the shoulders. Turning her and shoving her up against the wall. Her hands came up automatically, but he gave her a warning squeeze, and she merely rested them on his forearms. "Answer the question. What do you want, Claire? Right here, right now."

_(The Dragon is wreaking havoc in my brain...)_

She felt like she was panicking, her mind totally overwhelmed. And it was him who overwhelmed her; his scent, his skin, his presence threatened to drown her. She couldn't breath anything but him. She couldn't see anything but him. In this moment, he was all there was, no matter what the reason. And she knew the answer he wanted, and the one she wanted to give. Her stomach fluttered and she licked her lips. Her mind reeled but her instincts were passed the point of no return, and they both knew it. Her voice was low and husky and sounded strange to her own ears. But still her answer came out.

_(....give up the fight here...)_

"You."

It was like a flood gate opening. His mouth was on hers, demanding and ravaging. His skin was, surprisingly, as hot as her own. And her response was just as fervent. It was like they were trying to devour one another.

She made a muffled yelp feeling a sharp pain, and he pulled back harshly, his face in a wince. He'd bitten her lip, hard enough to draw blood, and it had singed him. They stared at each other for a heartbeat. Then Claire sucked her lip into her mouth, letting it out slowly, the wound healed. He growled lowly and was back on her mouth with renewed urgency.

They attacked each other with fiercely searching hands. His ripped open the tie of her robe, the soft white fabric falling open to frame her nakedness. At the same time, her fingers sought the throat of his shirt and tore. The fabric split down the center. Their hands simultaneously plunged inside fabric in search of flesh.

Wesker released her suddenly, but only briefly. He tore the scraps of his shirt from his arms, and reached for her. Instinctively, Claire's hands went for his shoulders as he lifted her by the waist. She wrapped her legs around him as he freed himself. And when he plunged inside her, she gasped for air.

He moved with unrestrained power, rocking them both hard enough that Claire's head bounced off of the wall, before she lifted her head enough to look into his face. She snarled at what she saw. Or rather, what she couldn't see.

_(Don't you deny that we're all human beings. We all have our flaws that can make us obscene.)_

Her hand came up and tore the dark glasses away. His red-gold eyes, like a reptile, like the dragon, met hers clearly at last, and she felt herself smile. Those eyes of his flicked down to her mouth and he crushed himself to her, devouring that smile.

Holding together as close as their bodies would allow, they rutted. There were no civilized words, no human definition here. They're mating was all force, struggling, competition, yet in sync. Grunting, panting and primal.

When Claire hit her climax her legs constricted tightly around him, and vaguely she felt his knees buckle. Their bodies collapsed roughly to the floor, but did nothing to phase them. While her body reeled, she could feel him, pounding as if to bruise, and then that one final thrust.

Panting and sweating, her eyes refocused. Her back rested against the wall, and Wesker rested in the valley of her breasts. They stayed like that for long moment, then he sat up. Her legs still around his waist, her body arched, displayed. And they're eyes met and locked.

_(...don't deny your fears. So let them go, and fade into light. Give up the fight.)_

_

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry if this seemed like it suddenly became a songfic, but I found Chasing the Dragon and knew it had to be the back drop for this scene. To avoid the overabundance of song lines I tried to just plug in markers of what line was playing at what time, skipping to the most useful parts. I did want to give more of Wesker's perspective, but I also wanted to keep pace with the song, (I did my best to write the scene so you could realistically play the song in the background), so maybe we'll save that for the next chapter._


	11. Morning After

This had not gone as planned.

Wesker stood, looking down at the girl sprawled face down across the bed. The white robe fell off one of her shoulders and was skewed to the side, revealing her legs. Somehow, they'd never managed to take it off her. Nor had his slacks ever come off, though his shoes were somewhere.

He had thought the discovery of pheromones in Claire's blood, only while he was present, had been an indication. A subtle sign from Alexia. An invitation to speak privately, but without the violence. Once again, he had misjudged.

When she had stepped out of the bathroom, he'd thought himself in control of the situation, despite how he could fairly swim in the scent of her. He would prod her, and play her until Alexia surfaced. But instead, that scent had overwhelmed him. He'd tried to stay at a distance from her, but the peek of exposed flesh where her leg slipped through the fold of the robe had drawn him in.

In the end, he knew he would have her before leaving that room. Yet he'd wanted to know, if it was Claire wanting him, or Alexia playing puppet master. Perhaps, it had been a bit of both, pheromones worked both ways. But then again, that did not explain the second time...or the third.

His mind conjured the image of her on his lap, her body lithe and glistening with mingled sweat, framed in foamy white. He had seen when human thought came back into her brain. She'd slid off of him side ways, sprawling on her hands and hip without grace. Her need for retreat making her heedless of modesty for one moment, she'd turned on her back, thinking to scoot away from him.

He couldn't explain it away to overpowering pheromones, why he had grabbed her ankle. No, it had been a need to express to her that she couldn't run away from what had happened. There would be no locking herself away until she could pretend it had been a bad dream. So he had pulled her back to him, and he took her again, there on the floor. It hadn't held the animalistic quality of their first mating, but it had its meaning; dominance and submission. They had fit their respective roles in that.

A line creased his brow as he frowned. That should have been the end of it. But it hadn't been. He pictured her again, after they'd moved away from each other. They way she'd climbed to her feet, clinging to the back of the couch, as if her legs could barely hold her up. And then she'd stumbled when she'd let go of her support. He'd caught her, picked her up in his arms. He'd brought her into the bedroom with every intention of leaving her there.

And then she'd kissed him.

The third time had been as different as the first and second. No urgency, no need for mastery, they'd explored each other. It had been an act of mutual give and take. Strangely, it was that final experience that had exhausted them both. And here he was, several hours later, attempting to make sense of it all.

He _would _make sense of it. The key to it was in this encounter, he was certain of it. His current goal solidified, he turned to leave the room, quietly closing the bedroom door behind him

* * *

Victory! At last, she had all that she needed. While her host lay dormant, she moved, infusing herself with the rapidly dividing cells. Soon, soon she would complete her goal. It was only a short matter of time.

* * *

The space on the bed beside her had long grown cold, when Claire finally woke up. Slowly, she pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. She felt terrible. Shivering from chill, she pulled her robe around her and shakily got to her feet. Her head swam, and her stomach lurched. _God, what's wrong with me?_ Stumbling into the bathroom, she all but collapsed in front of the toilet. She felt lucky when she jerked the lid up just in time to vomit the contents of her stomach into the white basin.

She stayed where she was long enough for her head to begin pounding ruthlessly, and for her to swear of food for the rest of her life, if only she could stop heaving. She rested her head against the porcelain and wept, holding her belly with one hand.

After a while, the nausea subsided, and in its place came a roaring hunger. She was _starving._ She clawed her way to the kitchen, and began throwing open cabinets. She dug her hand into a box of snack crackers, shoving a handful in her mouth. She chomped on cookies. She raided the refrigerator for anything her hands could grab; carrots, a hunk of cheese, a handful of raw ground beef. She could stop, her hunger was voracious and unabated.

"Claire?"

The sound of her name made her stop. She looked up from where she knelt on the floor, the near empty gallon jug of milk poised in her hands. Her blue eyes meet Miranda's with a kind of horror. Her vision blurred as her eyes filled with tears.

"Help me."

Her eyes were shut when she felt Miranda's warm hands close the robe around her, efficiently, but gently tying the belt. Her hair was smoothed back from her face, but she couldn't open her eyes. She just held her stomach and cried.

"Help me."

"I'm going to, Claire." Her arm was lifted over Miranda's shoulder, an arm encircled her waist. She was lifted to her feet. "I'm going to help you get dressed, first. Then I'm going to get James. He'll take care of you, okay?"

"Okay..."

* * *

A/N: This one was ridiculously hard to write, but we got through. Here's hoping the next part won't take so long to get out of me.


	12. Rebirth

A/N: I am sorry this took so long to get to you all. I found myself in the worst few weeks of my life, first coming down with the flu, and then my grandfather passed away. So please do forgive the delay, and I hope this chapter suites you. Thank you everyone for the reviews and support!

* * *

James opened the door to the observation room and stepped over to look through the large bay window. In the adjoining room, Claire lay on an exam table, half delirious with fever and severe abdominal pain. Dr. Michaels and Dr. Monroe turned to him with similar looks of concern and confusion.

"What's happening to her?"

"Is she mutating?"

James lifted his hand to stop the questions and shook his head. "I don't know yet. But we have to figure it out soon. Her fever is spiking, and her heart rate is erratic."

Dr. Monroe stepped toward him, a look of fear and sorrow on her face. "She's dieing, isn't she?"

"Maybe," he answered honestly. "Whatever is causing her current condition is putting tremendous strain on her bodily systems. And if it's not rectified quickly, then yes, I believe she's going to die."

Kathleen stared through the glass at the girl in the next room, slowly suffering to death, her expression rather neutral. "When are we going to report this? He'll be very angry if she dies on our watch and he wasn't informed."

"'Very angry' is putting it mildly, I think. " Dr. Monroe responded. "I'd say 'supremely pissed' or perhaps 'murderous' are more apt descriptions. We shouldn't keep this from him."

James moved toward the tables of equipment. "We won't, at least not for long. He'll be far less pissed if he has some kind of answer as to her condition when he does find out, than if he comes down here and thinks we've been sitting on our hands the whole time."

"I hope you're right, James," Dr. Monroe frowned, turning around to look out the window herself. "For all our sakes."

* * *

The cells divided again and again, and slowly she seeped into them, insinuating her own distinct code into the cells. It would take only a short time to inscribe all the necessary information, and then she could be whole again. Reborn.

Her dark prison contracted, and the fragile attachment shuddered, threatening to fall free. She reached out in the only way she could and held on. When the tremor passed, she took stock of her situation, and she was less than pleased at what she found.

The Mother was dying!

She had gone as delicately as she could. She had not foreseen how widely spread she had been through her host's body. Even a slow removal was straining the Mother at the very seams. She had to make a choice, and it was the only wise one to make.

She must get out.

* * *

On the table, Claire's eyes shot open as a yelp of agony tore from her lips. Her hands clutched at her belly, and beneath her palms she felt something move.

"Oh god…"

Her skin began to stretch, like someone was trying to tear it from her muscles, as the ripple under the surface became a undulating bulge. She gave in to another shriek of agony as the door flung open. Her vision was blurred by tears, and blood roared in her ears, so the figures that swarmed around her were rendered hazy and muted.

Her belly swelled and pulsed beneath her hands and her mind raced. _Am I going to explode?_ What was going to happen? Was Alexia going to shed Claire like an old skin? Or burst from her body like _Aliens_? At the moment, she honestly didn't really care. _Just make it stop!_

* * *

She grew swiftly, pulling as much of her own self in to the body as she could. She knew she couldn't bring it all and that was a sacrifice she would simply have to make. But to leave anything behind would be folly.

Formed and growing to the necessary size, she now needed an escape, and a means of destroying the leftovers. And so she commanded that which still was hers, though not of her new body, out. Out and out and out.

* * *

"What the hell is that?!" Kathleen shrieked, as Claire's body convulsed and a thick black substances began to seep out from her pores. It flowed out over the girl's skin and clothes, coating her and cocooning around her body.

The black mass continued to grow at an alarming rate, swelling to engulf the exam table. Horrified, and disgusted, Kathleen came to her senses first of the three of them and made a dash for switch on the wall. The red one that flashed gently, and had the word 'Biohazard' printed above it.

* * *

With the waste outside the Mother, Alexia made her move. Turning in the warm amniotic fluid, she adjust toward the way to her freedom and descended. Nature helped do the rest, clearing the way, washing out the fluid and contracting the muscles to push her free.

From darkness to darkness she transitioned. But her body was still too weak to survive alone outside the dark shell. Her senses told her there were four living organisms nearby. One was the Mother, the others expendable.

She chose at random and unleashed her will.

* * *

The alarms blared, and the room lights flashed red. The noise helped bring James back to his senses. He saw the black mass that had consumed Claire undulate and seem to rear back. He reacted on instinct. He grabbed Dr. Monroe's arm and turned to run, only to feel a rush of wind, and woman he held on to ripped from his fingers.

"No!"

He dared to look over his shoulder, and watched as Miranda Monroe was pulled into the black mass and did not come out again.

* * *

The organic material was sufficient, and Alexia grew, shedding her infancy in mere moments. Limbs growing stronger, muscles steadier. This would be enough for the moment.

She sensed a stirring within her protective cocoon, and knew exactly the source. Mother stirred in panic, in pain and fear. Were it any other, she would let them die in their lost confusion. But this was the Mother. She was special now, and not something to be discarded too quickly. Waste not, want not.

* * *

Claire came to in darkness. Fleshy black fluid surrounded her. She wanted to scream but feared there was no air to breath. In blind panic she thrashed and scraped, looking for some hope of escape. But the black mass around her simply absorbed her frantic movements. It was almost like swimming in evil jello.

And then suddenly, there was light and air, and she was stumbling to the floor. Her eyes took in the scene in a brief flash. James and Dr. Michaels stood near, both gazing at her in shock and horror. Behind her the black mass grew and lashed. And across from her, the door to the adjoining lab stood open. She didn't think. Her legs moved at her minds unknown signal and she was running for that door.

She sprinted through it, her mind working in over drive. She found the door to the hallway and went for it without breaking stride. In her mad dash to get away, she didn't register the sound of a door slamming behind her.

* * *

James moved to follow after Claire, his mind forming a million reasons. He needed to subdue her. He couldn't let her leave the vicinity until the Biohazard was contained. And she was the only one of them who'd had the wherewithal to think to run for the door.

But as he neared the exit, something struck him hard across the face, knocking him to the floor. He blinked blood from his eyes in time to see a black tendril of matter lashing out and slamming the door shut.

He heard a scream, and his gaze shifted to Kathleen. The scientist cowered against the far wall, her eyes trained on the ever growing viral mass. And then he saw it too.

Slowly, almost delicately, a small child, no more than a toddler, stepped out of that viscous mass. The little girl was naked, coated in a thin reddish goo, her blond hair matted with it. The girl stepped out as if parting a curtain, her expression utterly calm. He watched as she strode across the room toward the door. She had to go up on tiptoe to reach the handle.

"Wait!" He shouted to her, his arm reaching out. She turned her eyes to him, soft deep blue eyes. Eyes he recognized, but the look in them was distant and cold. She turned away from him and opened the door. She waved her petite hand, and the mass surged forward.

James heard the door give a quiet click as the monstrous viral matter split open and napalm spewed out.

* * *

Claire ran along with the panicked crowd as they flooded to the exits. No one noticed her in her tank top and warm-up pants. They were far too focused on getting out of the building, and she didn't look like a mutating zombie monster.

Stepping out of the main doors, she broke from the herding crowds and simply kept going. She remembered that the facility was actually just on the edge of a city. Which city, she hadn't even bothered to ask. And though her feet were bare, she ignored the rough jabbing of gravel on tender skin and walked.

She felt like someone had beaten her from the inside out. She felt more tired than she had in a long time, and her stomach rumbled in a normal, familiar way. She sensed, that whatever had happened in that laboratory, she was suddenly free in more than one way. Her eyes teared at the notion, and she kept walking.

* * *

Gone. All of it gone. Every sample they'd extracted from Claire was destroyed, and the girl herself was missing. The only ones who could explain how the explosion had occurred had been consumed by it. The only positive was that the fire had been contained and the damage done had been rather minimal. Though Wesker suspected that it had been no accident.

After hours of damage control, the facility was back online, and he sat in his office going over the debriefing reports with a fine tooth comb, looking for any possible indication on what had caused him to lose one of his most valuable assets so very quickly after acquiring her.

"Poor Father," a soft voice spoke from behind him. He was out of his chair in a moment facing the intruder. The tiny child stood utterly still, completely naked and covered in some dried red substance that was flaking from her skin. "Always working so hard."

He stared at the girl for a moment, noting the deep blue eyes, the certain turn of nose, the curve of the lips and shape of the face. They were all features he recognized, but they belonged to someone else. But it was the voice, though still that of a young child, that made him truly understand.

"Alexia."

* * *

A/N: Yes this is the end. However, I just finished RE5 and because the ending sucked so badly, I have been inspired to write a sequel.

Thanks again to everyone for the reviews and support! Much love.

Eve


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